2014.04.12 - The Fox Gardens
Few restaurants in Gotham can boast such exclusivity as the Fox Gardens. Perched just below Wayne Tower's observation deck, the modern-looking establishment commands views of Gotham City all the way out to the water. Only a handful of tables dot the spacious room, the restaurateurs obviously subscribing to the 'less is more' theory of design and business. All the same, though, the other tables are occupied by people who seem to be chatting quietly beneath the strum of a jazz quartet on a raised dais in the corner. Bruce Wayne stands near the entrance, one hand in his pocket and the other resting on the shoulder of the maître d'. "So, the guy says: I don't know about you, but I haven't eaten anything all week." Bruce simply smiles as the maître d' throws his head back and laughs before adding, "Very good, sir." Having spent the better part of the last seven years living out of a tote bag, Henrietta's 'wardrobe' prior to last month was confined to a couple stark black suits and her SHIELD tactical armor. As neither of those seemed appropriate for a working dinner with the first son of Gotham's Elite, she actually had to stoop to something as pedestrian as shopping to fill this evening's niche. This makes two dresses she owns now. If this trend continues she'll actually need to buy hangers in the next six months. The dress in question treads the line between her usual work-ware and something dinner appropriate, a stark and unornamented knee length column of black crepe whose straplessness is its only concession to frivolity. Otherwise it's as about as jolly as a funeral. She emerges from the elevator, taking in the rarefied splendor of Mr. Wayne's favorite restaurant with a sweep of her blue-green eyes as she makes her way to the doorway where Bruce stands joking with the maître d', who would doubtless find the most well-worn joke about chickens and roads hilarious coming from him. "Mister Wayne." She says with a smile as she draws to within a few feet of him. A faint uptick of her eyebrows and she says, "I feel like I may have been missing out on a few things, confining myself to the other side of the river. This is rather smashing." “Isn’t it, though?” Bruce smiles once more and holds out a hand to take Henrietta’s. Not to shake it, it would seem, but to lead her over towards the table. It doesn’t seem he’s going to let the head waiter do his job of showing them to their seats. He knows the place well enough, after all. “I’ve got us a table over by the window,” he continues, leading her through the tables should she let him, “You can see all the way to Bristol on a clear night.” It just so happens that it is a clear night and the mansions of Gotham’s old money glitter amidst the trees out in the distance. “I didn’t arrange the weather, by the way,” he chuckles. You can't shake finishing school, even after years in the far-flung corners of field work. 'Etta is easily led as Bruce steers her to the finest table with the finest view at what is looking increasingly likely to be the finest restaurant in the city. As the head waiter adjusts her chair just so, she takes a moment to bask in the twinkling glitter spread out like an inverted night sky just on the other side of the glass. "Its really lovely." She says with complete earnestness when she finally looks across at him, the barest lift at the corners of her scarlet mouth making her look pensive but happy. A little shake of her head and she adds, "But you needn't have gone to all this trouble on my account, Mr. Wayne. I won't even be the one executing the contract, which seems all but finalized already." A slightly brighter, more winsome smile and she adds, "...Though I expect I won't regret the dinner, however unnecessary it might be. I rather think it might have the edge over the Argus' cafeteria." “Well, I have a confession to make,” Bruce answers, leaning back in his chair and placing a hand guiltily upon his chest, “I didn’t ask you here to try and make sure the contract goes through. If I’m honest? I’m confident that it will. Wayne Enterprises has a lot to offer SHIELD and considering the generous deal I’ve told the Board to cut in regards to the contract I can’t see it being refused.” He reaches to pick up a menu from the table, flicking it open. Like most high class restaurants there are not a whole lot of options and what is written there doesn’t have a price tag next to it. He looks it over for a moment before speaking up again. “I actually just wanted to get to know you better. And not the SHIELD agent you, either, whom I have nothing but the utmost respect and admiration for – let me just get that out there straight away.” She makes no move to follow suit, leaving both the menus and, presumably, the ordering to Bruce. After all, it's probably a safe bet that he has a sound grasp on what's best here, if the chef even tolerates him ordering off the menu like a commoner. She smiles with candid amusement at his confession about the contract, knowing just as well as he does that there's little chance of SHIELD passing on the chance to raid his proverbial toy box. The rest of the confession seems to come as a bit of a surprise, however. She goes quiet still, frozen for an instant in uncertainty before animation returns to her face and she glances down at the flatware with sudden interest. "Good working relationships are important. After all, I think we'd both hope this would become a standing arrangement rather than a one-off." Such lovely forks they have here. And doubtless the thread count of the napkins is quite impressive. A moment passes before the whole thing seems almost funny and she's emboldened enough to peek up at him from beneath her lashes, a few notes of soft laughter slipping past her lips. "I'm sorry. I think I may have utterly forgotten how to talk about myself in a pleasant, social context. Which probably tells you all you'd care to know about me, I'm afraid. I might actually be on firmer footing if you had my feet in a bucket of water and were menacing me with a pair of jumper cables." “Believe me, I know the feeling,” Bruce answers, though he goes into no further detail than that, “And if you want me to have the waiter fetch a bucket and some jumper cables, I can, but I don’t think that’s a great start to a date, do you?” He closes the menu. Either he’s made his decision or nothing on there is good enough, “I’m glad you’re here, honestly. I was a little worried you might find a reason not to come. I assure you, though, I’m not all playing polo and sleeping in ‘til noon.” "If you were the one asking? I rather think they'd hardly bat an eye, Mr. Wayne." She smiles across at him with obvious and perhaps slightly perverse amusement at the idea of being subjected to extraordinary rendition by the tuxedo clad wait-staff, but the expression fades quickly, leaving her just a little uncertain. "I'm very glad to come. I was... " Another little shake of her coppery head as she rifles through her stock of words for the right one. "Impressed. And maybe surprised, I have to confess... to hear how you thought of us. With what we do, and what we're capable of... we can be daunting, I suppose. Even unsettling to some." Another flicker of a smile and she says simply and honestly, "It was nice to hear someone like you see the good that we do." "But..." And here she pauses to study her napkin again and furrow her brows. "I should also mention, perhaps, that I'm seeing someone. Not to presume, of course, but just in light of the 'd' word and whatnot." “Oh,” Bruce replies with an easygoing smile, raising his hands up almost defensively, “That’s always the way, isn’t it?” Nevertheless he laughs inwardly as he raises a hand, beckoning the waiter over and clicking his tongue thoughtfully, “The, uh, pistou soup to start with, I think. And a bottle of Krug Clos Du Mesnil to go with it.” The ordering done, he turns his attention back to Henrietta, “Well, I stand by what I said about SHIELD. I like what you’re doing. It was good to get a look inside in the operation – however brief it was.” "Not really in my experience. Until last month I hadn't had a date in something like five years..." Etta can't resist confessing with a touch of self-deprecating humor. But having gotten it out of the way seems to have freed her up to smile at him across the table once more, even going so far as to quirk a brow at him. "Once was enough? I would think you'd get some satisfaction out of seeing what we do with all your marvelous goodies. And if you time your next visit right I could /probably/ even get you a personal training session with Captain Rogers." She grins at him for an instant before noting, "You might regret it though. I walked in on him doing push-ups the other evening and he'd gotten up into the thousands. He's not really a man for half-measures." She watches him a moment, carefully taking stock of his expression as one trained in reading faces is wont to do. And after a moment's pause she asks, "Tell me something about you. I've read your file of course, so I have a grasp of the basics. But... something else. If its not too bold to ask, Mr. Wayne." “I know what those goodies do,” Bruce points out, “But I wouldn’t begrudge another visit to that flying base of yours. It’s certainly a lot more interesting than the board room.” His facial expression is a carefully measured one. He knows well enough about Etta’s skill for reading people and he puts his acting skills to use. Its equal parts the usual Bruce Wayne swagger, a twinge of disappointment and overall comfort in his surroundings. “Hmm, something about me?” he ponders the question, stroking his chin, “Well, I cracked a rib climbing Half Dome earlier this week. Misjudged my grip a little.” Or he was shot by the Red Hood. But that’s not the story he’s telling the world. That's the thing about being able to tell someone is lying - even if she catches it, she won't know why. And in his case she'd be more likely to think that he hurt himself slipping on some model's discarded silk lingerie than as the result of a street fight. Either way, all she says with a playful lift of brows is, "A bit of a daredevil, are we?" The waiter arrives, going through the elaborate ritual of decanting wine into their glasses. Etta smiles up at him as he hovers over her, plucking hers up by the stem when he's done and bringing it to her lips for a sip. "Sadly, our compensation packages at SHIELD don't include much in the way of vacation time. Maybe that's why I resist the occasional temptation for someone to try and chain me to a desk with as much fervor as I do." She muses over that for a moment, twirling the stem of her glass between her fingers before she says, "Next time you're by, if you have time I'll show you the very clever little tightrope and aerial ribbons that Sci-Tech made me." She looks up at him, indulging in another moment's study of his somewhat inscrutable features before she stretches her glass towards his. "To SHIELD and Wayne Enterprises. And lovely, lovely toys." “To SHIELD,” Bruce repeats, tapping his glass against Etta’s, “And to a business relationship that’ll be profitable to everyone.” He holds the glass to his lips as though to take a sip but, careful not to draw attention, he drinks none of it. He nevertheless makes the sound of someone instantly refreshed by expensive alcohol, putting the glass back down on the table. “I like to leave the running of Wayne Enterprises to more interested people. But when you don’t really need to work,” he sounds almost embarrassed, “You have to find something to do with your time. So I like to push myself to extremes. I’m thinking of going down to Mexico to try the Shining Path up El Toro once the rib heals.” “It’s a shame you don’t get vacation time. But I guess your whole life is like a bit of an adventure, isn’t it?” "Well... I think my adventures and yours differ in some very substantive ways." Henrietta observes with a twinkle of amusement lighting her expression. "Yours are quite possibly catered, for one. And very unlikely to involve weeks spent in a crumbling Eastern European communist apartment block squinting through a scope, or the better part of a month roasting in a tin hut in central Africa." And yet, even as she recalls the less-than-lofty highlights she's smiling at him, both with the fondness of recollection and a touch of lingering humor. "The sickest bit is that we all love it so. We'd none of us do anything else, and after it's over, those of us that make it through to retirement will /pine/ the rest of our days for even the worst moments in service. Maybe especially those moments." She looks at him over the rim of her glass as she takes another sip, clearly not faking it for him, and then says in a soft murmur, "There's nothing so sad as an ex-spy, Mr. Wayne. Because what we all want, more than anything else, is to make a difference. And we tend to give up everything else for the chance." “And that’s why I like SHIELD. A group of people making a difference who couldn’t fathom doing anything else. That’s why I’m selling to you and not the CIA or some other group full of paycheckers.” Bruce takes up his glass again, taking any moment when her gaze is not on him to tip a sip of champagne out into a nearby potted plant. “Though now I feel kind of guilty for pulling you away from the job you love under false pretenses and bragging about my idle rich lifestyle.” "No, don't." The words come quickly, followed by her leaning back in her chair and turning to gaze out the window once more at the sparkling cityscape. "This is lovely." She murmurs with complete honesty. "I think we all have a tendency to get... lost in the day to day of whatever we're doing, be that selling insurance or saving the world. Your brain creates shortcuts. It doesn't need 'you' anymore to do ninety percent of your work, which is just a rote pathway carved into your tissue. With you, I can look at it again from outside. Its inspiring. And maybe we all need a bit of that." She looks back to him, having given him ample time to water the ferns with his discarded and doubtlessly dreadfully expensive wine, and looks wry and maybe just a little regretful, "Plus, I suspect you won't be asking me again. So I might as well enjoy it, yes?" “You never know,” Bruce points out, grinning over the rim of his glass, “I’m Bruce Wayne. I’m not used to ‘no thank yous’.” It’s said without malice or ill-intent. Just the sought of thing a billionaire who is used to getting his way might say good-naturedly. He leans back in his chair, taking the moment to surreptitiously deposit the remaining mouthful in the planter under the guise of drinking it "A point." She says, saluting him with her glass before adding more earnestly, "But I do hope to see you aboard again at the very least." There's a moment's distraction as the first course arrives, fragrant bowls placed in front of them. Etta is contemplating it happily when a thought occurs to her and she looks at him across the table with her head canted quizzically a bit to one side. "Considering your enthusiasm... did you ever think about a career like mine? I know that you have other responsibilities, as you say, that would probably make that a difficult prospect at best but... even in passing?" “I thought about it once,” Bruce admits, his tone suddenly more earnest, “Years and years ago when I was barely out of my teens. I didn’t think I could deal with the red tape.” He looks down at the soup, picking up his spoon and tasting some before continuing, “And now? Well, I don’t think I’m suitable. I don’t want to brag but I’m one of the richest men on the planet. It wouldn’t be easy for Bruce Wayne to go unnoticed. Besides, I doubt I’m in any shape at all to be a spy.” "Oh, that's what the academy and two hours of training a day is for." She says with all good humor, though the rest is worthy of consideration. "But it would be difficult to balance running a company, however loosely, and your philanthropic work and social commitments with twelve hour days, seven days a week and never knowing where you'll be in a month's time." A little shrug in between delicately ladled spoons of soup and she says, "Though there's always the contractor route, if you wanted to be more involved and still preserve something of a real life outside tradecraft. I don't know how hands-on you are, but Tony Stark seems to have a lovely time breezing through with new ideas and a list of demands and still makes it home in time for dinner each night. Well, when he's not saving the world." "I'm no Tony Stark," Bruce answers, looking slightly abashed as he becomes suddenly interested in the contents of his soup bowl, "I didn't make the stuff SHIELD is buying, I just gave people the money to develop it." He sighs, shrugging his shoulders almost wistfully, "No, I'm afraid I don't have anything to offer SHIELD besides the things my company builds. I'm just the guy they get behind when they want to sell things and the Helicarrier doesn't have a sales floor as far as I'm aware." He takes another mouthful of soup. "And thank goodness for that, as I doubt the world could handle two." 'Etta says, the humor rendered gentle by the soft tone of her voice. She watches him study the contents of his soup bowl for a long moment, a brief frown tugging at the corners of her painted lips as she watches him. "I've read your file, remember?" She tries to draw his gaze back up by reaching out to briefly brush the tips of her fingers across the back of his non-spoon wielding hand. And provided it works, he'll find her smiling thoughtfully at him. "I'd say you're a bit more than a logo, Mr. Wayne. So it's really a question of what you'd /like/ to be. And, if it's nothing more than you are right now? That's still a considerable amount. And more than enough for the world to be grateful for." Bruce doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he stares off at the horizon where the sun, blazing orange, begins to disappear beneath the buildings to the west. He almost looks lost in thought for a second, the expression on his face entirely impassive – a far cry from his usual easygoing half-smile. “Thanks,” he answers at last, his expression regaining its normalcy, “But I don’t think I’m SHIELD material. It’s tough to look at people like Captain America and Iron Man and think you could be part of that crowd.” He grins, “Not that I don’t appreciate the suggestion. Most of the people I bring here are more interested in what my wallet can do for them.” "If we all approached it from that vantage point, the Argus would be very lightly manned indeed." The observation is accompanied by a little tilt of her chin down and a lift of brows. She thinks a moment before she says, "Tony Stark is a team unto himself. Which is not to diminish what he is or what he does, but I don't think he or any of us would consider him dyed-in-the-wool SHIELD." "Captain Rogers, however..." She smiles, but his name makes her expression a bit more cloudy, the obvious admiration, even reverence she has for him clouded with a concern that is obvious even to an untrained eye. "Every Agent would claim him as theirs. But I've come to see that as kind of a terrible thing. He's the symbol, the thing that gets you through the very worst moments. The promise of why you do this. /That/ you can do this at all, if it comes to it, because... god knows it's difficult at times." She looks almost apologetic at having rambled far afield and adds, "It's just something I've been wrestling with lately. Because its started to feel... unfair almost, what we want of him. I grew up with him. And so, when I met him, he was more symbol than man to me. It strikes me as kind of an awful burden now. But the point I was fumbling around towards is that... it matters to you. And that's the most important bit. Though marksmanship doesn't hurt either." “It must be difficult being a symbol,” Bruce admits, “To be honest, I’d never thought of it like that. My father used to have Captain America news reels in old film cans that he’d show me. Something his dad gave to him. He was kind of a hero of mine growing up, too.” He pauses, “Though if anyone is made to carry that kind of burden then I suppose it’s him.” He offers an almost wistful smile and adds, “I feel kind of guilty wanting to meet him, now. It sounds like he’s got a lot on his shoulders. You don’t need to worry about bothering him for my sake.” "No, I actually think he'd love to meet you." 'Etta says with a reassuringly warm smile. "One symbol to another, as it were." She can't help but add with a hint of laughter, referencing his earlier protestation about merely being a marketing ploy for his board of directors. "No, something like meeting you would be the good part of being a symbol to an agency... and a country that has made him something like the last bastion of morality in the modern world. The tough bits are what he does to himself to maintain that image. But you're right... he shoulders it without complaint. Though I secretly wish he'd take to complaining just a /little/ bit... or at the very least take a night off to ride off on his motorcycle with a pretty Agent from accounting perched on the back." This is, however, singularly unlikely to happen, and Etta's smile indicates as much. She lays aside her spoon and says, "That was exquisite. And I can top your father's film reels in that I /still/ have a pair of Captain America pajamas." "I had some as a kid," Bruce laughs, "But I don't know where they've gone. I don't really get to that wing of the house all that much anymore." The laughter dies quite suddenly, the look on his face one of melancholy. For all his confidence and laid back attitude, Bruce Wayne's story is a tragic one and now is the first time it actually shows. But he shakes it off, moving the conversation on. "Thanks for agreeing to dinner. I can't imagine I was all that obtuse with the reason. It was nice of you to humor me, though, and if I wasn't sold already then you've definitely got me on board with SHIELD. I'd even offer the tech as a donation if I didn't think the board would have me locked up in Arkham if I did." "We can probably afford it. We'll just sacrifice a few of the outlying countries that were probably going to topple anyway..." She teases with a dismissive flutter of fingers. It doesn't quite hide an echo of something melancholy in her own expression. She turns her head, seeming reluctant to display it head on. Instead she looks down at her now-empty glass, dragging a fingertip idly along the stem. "I wasn't sure. About the reason for the dinner." She murmurs softly before peeking up at him from beneath her lashes for just an instant. "I would say that I wouldn't have wanted to make a presumption about the intentions of a famous billionaire playboy and consistent most-eligible bachelor list topper for well beyond the last decade but... But I may owe you an apology. I think I just wanted to come anyway, which suddenly feels entirely selfish of me." A little wince at the seeming truth of that is quickly banshed. By the time she lifts her eyes to his once more she's reclaimed her smile, just a little wistful and worse for wear. "I'll say goodnight then. And if there's ever anything I can do, or you want another tour or an introduction to our collective idle... or anything else. Do ring. Thank you so much for all of this, Bruce. It was lovely." Bruce climbs to his feet, playing the gracious host and moving around to get Etta’s seat as he does so. He smiles wistfully at the confession. “You don’t owe me an apology. I just hope that whoever that lucky someone is that they’re keeping their end up. If not, let me know and I’ll have some goons come ‘round and beat them up.” He chuckles at his own joke, holding out a hand to gesture towards the elevator bank beyond the head waiter’s station. “Did you drive here?” That good-natured threat can only amuse her. "Probably... not necessary or advisable, but thank you." She says, gliding along under his careful guidance and nodding her gratitude at the waiter and head waiter as she passes. She turns at the threshold, looking up at him with a touch of something just a little uncertain at their parting. "Well, my bed is floating several thousand feet above the city across the river, so getting a lift home can be a bit complex. I borrowed a car from the Gotham station, I'll drop it back and catch a jump up home from there. So I'll say goodnight here." There's a moment's hesitation, but after it passes she drapes a hand across his forearm, leaning up to brush a cheek against his as she kisses the air near his ear. "Goodnight. And thank you again." She all but whispers before turning and making her way into an elevator, quick as she can. Bruce stands with his hands in his pockets and watches her go. He lifts a hand to wave as the elevator doors close before moving to the stairwell door that sits inconspicuous nearby. “Mr. Wayne,” the head waiter calls from his podium, “Will we be seeing you next week?” “We’ll see, Will,” Bruce calls as he steps through the door, “We’ll see.” Inside, he climbs down a few steps before nudging a panel on the wall in just the right way and stepping through a sudden entryway that appears in the wall. Down, down the cramped capsule beyond the wall goes. Far below Wayne Tower and far below the streets of Gotham. When he exits it is to a Spartan room, adorned only with a wall of bat-gadgets and a batsuit on a stand. “Let’s get to work.” Category:Log